Unteachable
by Z-Hitch
Summary: Sonic is a young teacher in his first year teaching, but when Amy Rose first appears in his classroom he sees trouble. As the school year progresses Amy goes from the girl who keeps everyone at a distance with scowls and aggressive behavior to opening up and actually showing how bright she truly is. And somehow in all the self-discovery that Amy goes through, the pair find love.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a tale of how a lost girl was found. Throughout her difficult and tumultuous journey, this lost girl found love and redemption.  
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><p>I'm breaking the rules, and I absolutely refuse to care.<p>

The bell had rung thirty minutes ago, but I wasn't distraught. In truth, I was careless, so why should I be concerned? The first day of school was a waste anyway. Most of the teachers didn't mark tardies on the first day or scream at you in front of the class.

It was the last period of the day, and my mind had therefore left the building and blown over the landscape and into the wind in search of colors and inspiration. In this moment, I could feel the paintbrush in my hands.

Grudgingly, I forced my mind back to my body and raised my chest so I could make an impression as I walked into class, which was normally my goal. Mostly since I adored the attention but partly because I knew if people were intimidated by me they would leave me solitary.

Teachers left me solitary, exaggeratedly friendly girls who wanted to be BFF's left me solitary, but the guys were usually at my grasp in a heartbeat when I wanted one of them.

I dropped my cigarette to the floor and slammed my heel onto it, discarding it and whipped back my long pink quills as I entered the room. My eyes were heavily made up, and my dress was so short that sitting down was highly uncomfortable, although I'd perfected the art of slouching so it didn't show. . . too much. I cracked my gum and slid one eyebrow up disdainfully as I looked for an empty seat.

All eyes swiveled toward me as I stuttered up the center aisle and slid into the seat right in front, dead center. Damn. Being late had its downside. I took my time taking off my jacket and dropping my purse to the floor. I hadn't even designed to look in the direction of the new teacher whose voice had faded to silence at my arrival.

A few people chortled at my nonchalant display, and I snapped a poisonous scold in the general direction of the laughter. It stopped. Assuredly, I slumped into my seat and raised my eyes to the front of the classroom, sighing deeply and loudly.

"Sorry I'm late. I didn't want to come," I strummed, with another toss of my quills.

"Mr. Hedgehog" was written across the whiteboard in capital letters. My gaze shifted on him. He was staring at me with a furrowed brow and a slight smile. Cobalt quills in need of a haircut spiked above his head. It looked as if he had tried to tame it into respectability, but his mop had obviously rebelled at some point during his first day at Emerald High School.

I raised my eyebrows in amazement and tried hard not to grunt out loud. He looked like a student. In fact, if he hadn't had on a tie, knotted impulsively over a white button-up dress shirt with a pair of slacks, I would have thought he was some kind of teacher's aid.

"Hello," he offered in a gravelly voice. His tone was warm and friendly, and he seemed unbothered by my deliberate impudence. He glanced down at the roll that was sitting on a music stand to his right."You must be Amy Rose . . ." His voice trailed off a little.

"And you must be Mr. Hedgehog," I retaliated.

Laughter volumized. Mr. Hedgehog grinned. "I am. As I was telling your classmates, you can call me Sonic. Except when you are late or disrespectful, in which case I would be called the Mr. Hedgehog," he ended.

"Well in that case, I guess I'd better stick to Mr. Hedgehog then. Because I'm ordinarily late, and I'm always disrespectful." I smiled back innocently.

His goofy smile never faltered. Who the hell was this guy?

"We'll see." He stared at me for another second. The set of his forest green eyes made him look lively, like a swirly madness. He striked me as arrogant. I sighed again. I knew I didn't want to take this class. Health Education was my least favorite subject. It sounded about as bad as you could get.

"Physical Education is my favorite subject." Mr. Hedgehog eyes left my face as he launched into an introduction of the course. I squirmed myself into a mostly comfortable position and stared heartly at the young professor.

"You might wonder, then, why I'm teaching Health Ed."

I didn't think anyone cared enough to wonder, but we were all a little mesmerized by his pulchritudinous. He continued.

"Health Ed. Isn't just about the body. Does anyone know what else it's about?"

"Knowing yourself," some enthusiast called from behind me.

"Exactly." Mr. Hedgehog nodded excitedly. "And that's what Health Ed. is all about. Knowing yourself. Discovering who you are. As a boy, I discovered that I would much rather run than listen to a lecture. Running makes me feel alive. It is what makes me me, it's what makes me feel free. My job this year is to help you all see – the colors of the wind – and to help you learn about yourselves. My goal this year is to get all of you to pass and learn from this. I hate F's and I know you can all do better than that so lets all go for that D- everyone!"

Funny.

A few students chuckled at his words, I might of smiled a bit. It wasn't everyday a teacher wanted his students to cheer for a D- in their class.

"How old are you?" a girl's voice cooed flirtatiously.

"You look like a male underwear model," some guy joked from the back of the room. There were a few giggles, and Mr. Hedgehog's licked his lips, trying to hide his grin.

"Damn, that should have been my career choice. I could have been surrounded by girls instead of a bunch of... I'm just kidding. You guys are awesome!" He joked and began handing out sheets of paper. There were some groans. Paper implied work.

"Look at the page in front of you," Mr. Hedgehog instructed, as he finished distributing the sheets. He walked to the front of the classroom and leaned against the whiteboard, folding his arms. He looked at us for several seconds, making sure we were all with him. "It's blank. Nothing's been written on the page. It's a clean slate.

Kind of like the rest of your life. Blank, unknown, unwritten. But you all have a story, yes?"

A few kids nodded their heads agreeably. I looked at the clock. Half an hour until I could take off this dress.

"You all have a story. It's been written up to this point, to this very second. And I want to know that story. I want to know YOUR life. I want you to know it. For the rest of the class time I want you to tell me your story. Don't worry about being perfect.

Perfection is boring. I don't care about run-on sentences or misspelled words. That's not my purpose. I just want an honest account – whatever you are willing to express. I will collect them at the end of the period."

Desk chairs scraped, zippers were yanked opened in search of pens, and complaints were muttered as I stared down at the paper. I dragged my fingertips down it, imagining I could feel the lines that ran in horizontal blue stripes. The feel of the paper calmed me, and I thought what a waste it was to fill it with squiggles and marks. I laid my head down on the desk, on top of the paper, and closed my eyes, breathing in. The paper smelled clean, with just a hint of sawdust. I allowed my mind linger on the fragrance, imagining the paper beneath my cheek was one of my artworks, imagining I was brushing along the paper a mixture of colors, layer upon layer, creating beauty. It would be a shame to ignore it.

Just like it was a shame to ruin a perfectly good sheet of paper. I sat up and stared at the pristine page in front of me. I didn't want to tell my story. Rob O' said to really understand something you had to know its story. But he'd been speaking about a rose at the time.

Rob O' had loved archery. If painting was his gift, archery was his hobby. He had a bow and arrow, and he would often hike to high peaks where he could shoot and hit what he wanted. He said the more obstinately you try to learn how to shoot the arrow for the sake of hitting the goal, the less you will succeed in the one and the further the other will recede.

When I was very small it was hard for me to sit still. It actually still is. Archery was hard for me, so Rob O' started leaving me behind when I was old enough to remain at camp alone. I was much more responsive to painting simply because it was so physical.

I must have been seven or eight the first time I saw Rob O' get really excited about a were in the Deerwood Forest, and I remember where we were only be_cause Rob O' remarked on it._

_"What 'tis she doing in these parts?" he had marveled, his eyes fixed on a scrubby bush. I had followed his gaze to a little pink rose perched by sunlight._

_Rob O' went for his binoculars, and I stayed still, watching the little rose. I didn't see anything special about it. It just looked like any other rose. Its petals were pink – no flash of color to draw the eye or brilliant markings to admire._

_"Yep. That's a rose all right. There are no roses native to Mobius. Not like this girl. She's actually a Cadenza." Rob O' was back, his voice a whisper as he looked through his binoculars. "She's a long way from home."_

_I whispered too, mimicking Rob O' even though I didn't understand why._

"_Where do roses usually grow?"_

"_Angel Island, Badlands, Deerwood Forest," Rob O' murmured observing the pink-petaled rose. "You can find them in Downunda and the Southern Tundra too."_

"_How do you know it's a she?"_

"_Because the males don't look like that. They aren't as pretty."_

_A giggle had erupted from my mouth at those words. Rob O' smiled tenderly at me and tucked his binoculars into his bag._

"_Her petals are as pink as your fur," Rob O' commented, turning away from the rose that had enlivened our morning. "Maybe that's what you are . . . a little rose a long way from home."_

_I looked at our camper sitting in the trees. "We're not a long way from home, Rob O'," I said, confused. Home was wherever Rob O' was._

"_Roses aren't as expressive as others like cherry blossoms and dahlias and other flowers that are open. But they don't give up their secrets easily. They want us to figure them out. We have to earn their wisdom."_

"_How do we earn it?" I wrinkled my nose up at him, baffled._

"_We have to learn their story."_

"_But it's a rose. How can we learn its story? Roses can't talk." I was literal in the way all kids are literal. I would have really liked it if the rose could tell me its story. I would keep it as a pet, and it could tell me stories all day. I begged for stories from Rob O'._

"_First you have to really want to know." Rob O' looked down at me. "Then you have to watch. You have to listen. And after a while, you'll get to know her. You'll start to understand her. And she'll tell you her story."_

I took out a pencil and spun it around my fingers. I wrote, "Once Upon a Time" across the top of my sheet, just to be a smart ass. I smirked at the line. As if my story was a fairytale. My smile faded.

"Once upon a time . . . there was a tiny rose," I wrote. I stared at the page. ". . . stepped on, undesirable."

Images gathered in my head. Long white quills. Reddened lips. That was all I could remember of my mother. I replaced the reddened lips with a gently smiling face. An absolutely different face. Rob O's face. That face brought a twinge of pain. I moved my inner eye to his hands. Peach hands covered in paint. Paintings piled on the floor at his feet where I sat, watching them explode into magnificence.

The paint dripped down onto my head, and I closed my eyes and imagined that they were tiny pixies coming to play with me. These were the things I liked to remember. The memory of the first time he had held my smaller hand in his and helped me strip away the plain sheet from an old stump rose in my mind like a welcome friend. He was talking softly about the image beneath the surface.

As I listened to the memory of his voice, I let my mind travel back across the desert and up into the hills, remembering the twig I had found the day before. It had been so alike a paint brush, fluffy, perfect to brush strikes on paper. My fingers yearned to press it into paint and onto paper. I had an idea about it. A picture was forming in my head. I tapped my feet and curled my fingers against the paper, daydreaming about what I could create.

The bell rang. The noise level in the room heightened as if a switch had been flipped, and I jolted from my reverie and glared down at my page. My commiserable story was in need for enhancement.

"Turn your papers in. And make sure your name is at the top! I can't give you credit for your autobiography if I don't know that it's yours!"

The room was vacant in about ten seconds flat. Mr. Hedgehog attempted to align the stack of papers that had been shoved in his hands as students exuberantly vacated his classroom, keen for other things. The first day of school was officially over. He perceived me still sitting and raised an eyebrow.

"Miss . . . um . . . tardy-girl-whose-name-I-forgot?"

I stood precipitously and reached for my paper. I fragmented it into a ball and tossed it toward the trashcan beneath the white board. It didn't entirely make it, but I didn't retrieve it. Alternatively, I clutched my purse and the jacket that was utterly nonessential in the 110 degree heat that anticipated me outside the school. I didn't glance at my new teacher as I paced to the back of the room and swung my purse over my shoulder.

"See you tomorrow, Sonic," I called out, not even turning my head. "And its Amy Rose!"

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><p>Jacques was anticipating me by my truck when I arrived at the student parking lot, and seeing him there made me growl. Jacques D'Coolette, was a resident in my apartment complex. He and his younger sister had selected me. They were like the stray chaos that would never leave you alone and chao beseechingly for days on end until you finally gave up and fed them. And when you did feed them, it was over. They were officially your chaos.<p>

So it was with Jacques and Belle. They just kept bothering me until I decided to take compassion on them. As of now they both believed they were mine, and I had no idea how to get them off my back. Jacques was sixteen and Belle was fourteen. Both were thin-boned and fine-featured, and both were fabulously sweet and bothersome. Just like chaos.

There was a bus that went to the complex, and I had made sure Jacques's mother was ware of it and even assisted her in getting Jacques and Belle registered to ride it. I really thought this year would be dissimilar now that Belle was a ninth grader and would be riding the high school bus too. Seems things take a turn. Jacques was waiting for me with a big smile and an armful of books.

"Bonjour, chéri! How was your first day? Big senior year, Poupée! I'm positif you shall be homecoming queen this year. The most beautiful girl in ze school shoud be homecoming queen, and you are definitely ze most beautiful girl!" Very sweet, very bothersome. Jacques spoke in one breath with a slight French accent and just a hint of a lisp, which most likely was the accent but was more precisely just Jacques.

"Hey, Jacques. What happened to riding the bus?"

Jacques's smile faltered slightly, and I felt regrettable for asking. He waved my question away and shrugged.

"I know, I know. I told Bunnie I would take ze bus, and I made sure Belle had caught it . . . but I wanted to ride home with you on the first day. Did you see ze new history teacher? I have him for first period, and I can tell he's going to be ze best teacher I've ever had . . . and ze cutest too!"

Jacques had recently begun referring to his mother as Bunnie. I wasn't sure why. I also considered telling him he might want to reconsider calling Mr. Hedgehog cute. I assumed that was who he was talking about. I wasn't aware of any new history teachers.

"J'adore his physique. I barely listened to anything he had spoken in the class time!" Jacques slithered elegantly into the passenger seat when I unlocked my truck. I was concerned about the boy. He was more feminine than I was.

"I wonder what he is doing in Emerald Hill? Melody and Pearly are sure he is, how do you say? MI-6 or something." Jacques had a handful of girlfriends. More precisely, the girls all loved him because he was so non-threatening and fun, which made me ponder again as to why he wouldn't ride the bus. It wasn't like he didn't have friends.

"What the hell is MI-6?" I wondered, trying to veer through the mass of vehicles leaving the school. I hit my brakes as someone cut me off and then showed me his middle finger out the window as if I was the one who pulled out in front of him. Jacques reached over my arm and slammed on the horn.

"Jacques! Stop! I'm the one driving, okay?" I commanded, shoving his hand away. It didn't even faze him.

"You don't know what MI-6 is? Putain James Bond? Mon amie, you need to get out more!"

"What would someone from MI-6 be doing at Emerald Hill High School?" I laughed.

"Je ne sais pas, but he's fantastique, he's beau, and he's young." Jacques tracked his reasoning on graceful fingers. "What else coud it be?"

"You really think he's handsome?" I questioned doubtfully.

"Oh, definitely. In a very naughty librarian kind of way."

"Oh, sick, Jacques. That only works when the librarian is female."

"Fine, a naughty professor then. He has sexy eyes and wild quills and his forearms are very well-developed. He's a hottie in disguise. Defiantly MI-6. Do you have to work tonight?" Jacques switched to a new subject, having clearly proven the new Mr. Hedgehog must be a spy.

"It's Wednesday. Wednesday means work, Jacques." I knew what he was inting for and resisted. "Stop feeding the chaos," I reminded myself sternly.

"I could sure go for some of Vanilla's Buckwheat Crêpes right now. I am one hungry Frenchie." Jacques laid the accent on thick. He only referred to his ethnicity when he talked about food. "I sure hope Bunnie remembered to go shopping before she left for work. Otherwise, me and baby sister are dining Pot-au-feu once more," Jacques sighed, anguished.

The baby sister line was too much, but I found myself taking pity. Jacques was the man of the house, and that meant providing for Belle, which he did with enthousiasme, even if providing meant asking me to provide. I worked at Vanilla's Cafe several nights a week, and without fail I brought home dinner for Jacques and Belle at least once during the week.

"Fine. I will bring you and Belle some Buckwheat Crêpes. But this is the last time, Jacques. It cuts into my paycheck," I snapped. Jacques smiled brilliantly at me and clapped his hands like children do when their excited.

"I will ze if my grandfather has any more paint zhat you can have," Jacques agreed, and I nodded and stuck out my hand to shake on it.

"Deal."

Jacques's Grandfather Armand worked as a house painter. He'd frequently had masses of his paint and brushes and kept the leftovers in perfect condition. Last time Armand had come through for me, I had enough paint to last me two months of serious artwork. I drooled at the thought.

"Of course, that means you will owe me, Poupée," Jacques suggested sweetly. "Dinners for at least a month of Wednesdays, oui?"

I just snickered at his negotiating skills. He already owed me for two months of Wednesdays. But we both knew I would agree. I always did.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading. <strong>

**Honestly, I am aware that this story is starting out slow but please don't give up on me just yet. ESPECIALLY if you're into heartfelt stories.I promise that the story will start to pick up from here on out and the juice parts will commence!**

**Will be posting every Friday and maybe Wednesdays for this story.**

**Have a wonderful day!**


	2. Chapter 2

***In deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality.***

**-William S. Burroughs-**

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><p>Maybe it was the mysticism I was enticed to. Regularly it was a different topic. And quite frequently, the topics were about one's intuition, or eye openers to life. Maybe it was just Mr. Hedgehog's obvious love of the subject he taught. Maybe it was simply his laid back attitude and his youth.<p>

The entire student body attempted to imitate him. Girls mobbed him, and the boys observed him, enchanted, as if a rockstar had descended into our midsts. He was the gossip of the school, an overnight sensation, instantly beloved because he was a novelty – and a very attractive novelty if you liked slightly messed quills and green eyes and quirky charm, which I reminded myself I did not. He was absolutely not my type.

Still, I discovered myself apprehended to my final class of the day with bothersome restlessness and was most likely more adversative than I would have otherwise been simply because I was bewildered by his charm.

Mr. Hedgehog had consumed an entire month on relaxation. We had discussed meditation, deep thinking, healing, and spirituality, but today Sonic was detailing the different chakras and what each represented. It was actually pretty fascinating, I had to admit, but incredibly irrelevant. I proffered this observation, of course.

"This isn't exactly health educational," I specified.

"The chakras might not be, but the effects of it are," Sonic responded deadpan. "You need to understand that chakras are a part of the subtle body. Chakra means 'Wheel' in Sanskrit. They allow energy to flow from one part of the body to another. As with all things in our reality, they are linked to sound, light and color. To heal, is to bring the chakras into alignment and balance then understand the nature of creation and your purpose in it. It's all in motion in the alchemy of time."

We all just stared at him. What he'd said was about as clear as a blizzard. He seemed to take note of our "huh?" expressions.

"According to Hindu and Buddhist beliefs, chakras are vast pools of energy in our bodies which govern our psychological qualities." Sonic wasn't about to be deterred, and he dug into his argument. "In other words, chakras are your body split into seven sections. Each section has a very special and important role in making you the best you can be. Crystals are even used with chakras to create balance and healing."

"I thought a crystal was just a jewel that girls wear to look pretty," a sixth year senior named Big volunteered. I was thinking the same thing but was glad someone else decided to speak up.

"That too, but crystals have a specific vibration and color that matches each chakra that provides a certain type of therapy. Hideous, nasty, bird-women. That image has persisted over time. Robert Collier described the power of mind in as empowerment." Sonic started reciting the quote, apparently from memory. "All power is from within and therefore under our control."

"You have that lovely quote memorized, I see," I said sarcastically, although I was mostly dumbfounded. Sonic burst out laughing, his serious face transformed by the action. I even cracked a smile. At least the guy could laugh at himself. Wow! Talk about a NERD. Who quoted Robert Collier at will? And with that retro style I was sure he was going to say, "Way past cool," every time I commented a remark. He was still smiling when he continued.

"To answer your question, Miss Rose, what we believe affects our world in a very real way. What we believe affects our choices, our actions, and subsequently, our lives. The Hindu and Buddhist believed there is deep wisdom within our very flesh, and this belief affected everything else. History is written according to what men believe, whether or not it's true. As the writer of your own history, what you believe influences the paths you take. Do you believe in something that may be controversy? I'm not talking about religious beliefs, per se. I'm talking about things you've told yourself, or things you've been told for so long that you just assume that they are true."

Mr. Hedgehog turned and picked up a stack of papers. He started passing them out as he talked.

"I want you to think about this. What if what you believe about yourself or about your life is simply under your control?"

Mr. Hedgehog set a wrinkled sheet of paper on my desk and moved on without comment. It was my personal history. The history I'd thrown toward the garbage can the first day of school. It had been pressed and smoothed, but it bore the signs of having been discarded. It would never be the same. No amount of pressing and smoothing would ever disguise the fact that it had been rescued from the trash.

"Once upon a time . . . there was a tiny rose, stepped on. Undesired."

I added a word. Abandoned. I read it to myself.

"Once upon a time . . . there was a tiny rose, stepped on. Undesired. Abandoned."

Just like trash. And no amount of pretending I wasn't trash would make me something else. Girls like me deserve their reputations. I cultivated mine. I suppose I could blame my upbringing, but it wasn't in me to make excuses for myself. I like boys and boys like me. Or at least they like the way I look. I guess it would be a lie to say they like me, the me I keep to myself. They don't know that girl. But that's part of the allure. I cultivated my look, too. I had sexy quills, and I always wore my skirts too tight and my shirts snug and my eye makeup thick. And when I was being held or kissed or touched, I felt powerful and I felt wanted. I knew what some people called me. I knew the whispers behind the hands. I knew what the boys said about me. They said I was a slut. Pretending I wasn't would be believing a lie. A belief, like the Hindu and Buddhist with their silly chakras.

Rob O' had called me Rosey. It was his own little nickname. But I bore no resemblance to a rose . . . sweet, bright, happy. I was more like a modern day witch. A thorn-woman. A female monster equipped with crooked, sharp talons. Mess with me, and I would carry you off to the underworld and punish and torment you for infinity. Maybe it wasn't my fault I was the way I was.

Rouge took me in when I was about twelve, and she didn't have much use for a kid. Her lifestyle wasn't conducive to motherhood. She was unaffectionate and absent most of the time, but she was all right. When I was younger she made sure I ate and that I had a bed of my own.

We lived in a two bedroom apartment in a dumpy complex on the outskirts of Emerald Hill, twenty minutes from the bright lights of Night Babylon. Rouge was a bartender at a Club in Night Babylon, and she spent her days sleeping and her nights surrounded by drunks and cigarette smoke, which suited her just fine. She usually had a boyfriend. The older she got, the more seedy her choice in men became. The older I got, the more interested they became in me. It made for a tense relationship. I knew that as soon as I graduated I would be on my own because the money for my custody stopped at eighteen, and I had turned seventeen in June. It was just a matter of time.

When class was over, I wadded up my paper and threw it back in the trash where it belonged. Mr. Hedgehog saw me do it, but I didn't care.

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><p>Both Jacques and Belle were sitting on my tailgate talking to group of Jacques's girlfriends when I reached the parking lot. I just sighed. First Jacques, now Belle. I was becoming the chauffeur. They were all laughing and chattering, and my head immediately started to hurt. One of the girls called out to a handful of guys gathered around a grey Toyota.<p>

"Manic! Who are you taking to Homecoming? I still need a date, ya know!"

The girls around her twittered, and Manic looked over to see who was propositioning him. Manic was the younger brother of a guy I hung out with every now and then. Where Scourge was brawny and dark, Manic was lean with good humor, but both were too good-looking for modesty. Scourge had graduated three years before, and Manic was a Senior, like I was. I was older than all the guys my age, and though I could acknowledge good looks, I grew bored with them very easily and didn't make it a secret. Which is probably why I would NOT be crowned Homecoming Queen, despite Jacques's high hopes and machinations.

"Sorry, cutie. I asked Melody last week. We definitely need to hang out sometime, though." Manic smiled, and I was reminded how appealing Scourge was when he was being sweet. Maybe it was time to give Scourge a call. It had been a while.

"Zhat car iz seriously hot, Manic," Jacques called out, his voice raised above those of his friends.

"Uh, thanks, man." Manic grimaced, and his friends looked away awkwardly. I winced for Manic's sake and for Jacques's.

"Jacques, Belle, let's go." I yanked my truck door open, hoping the loafers on my tailgate would scatter when I started it up. I watched through the rearview mirror as all of Jacques's friends gave him hugs and made him promise to text. Belle seemed transfixed by Manic and his friends, and when everyone dispersed she was still sitting on the tailgate staring. Jacques tugged on her, pulling her out of her reverie, and the two of them hopped in beside me. Belle had a dazed look on her face, but Jacques was pouting.

"I von't zhink Manic likes me," he mused, looking at me for feedback.

"Manic is so hot," Belle sighted.

I cursed derisively. Wonderful. Manic was waaaay to old for Belle, and I wasn't just talking age. Belle was small and pretty, but she was immature, both physically and emotionally. And she was spacey in a very "look at all the pretty flowers" kind of way. It was a good thing she had Jacques. Otherwise she might just wander around in a pleasant fog. Both Jacques and Belle were unfazed by my language, continuing on as if they hadn't even heard me.

"In fact," Jacques huffed von't zhink any of Manic's friends like me, eitha'. And I am so nice!" Jacques seemed genuinely befuddled.

"Do you think Manic likes me, Jacques?" Belle pondered dreamily.

Jacques and I ignored her. I decided it might be time to give Jacques a little advice.

"I zhink maybe the guys are... commo ditto confused? About how to treat you, Jacques. You're a guy but you hang out exclusively vith girls, you wear fingernail polish and eyeliner, and you carry a purse . . ."

"It iz Louis Vuitton!"

"Fine! How many guys carry Louis Vuitton in rainbow colors?"

"It iz just a bag with flare!"

"Okay. Fine. Forget the backpack. You openly remark on how hot this or that guy is . . . including freaking Sonic, yet in the very next breath you are flirting with the head cheerleader. Are you gay? Are you straight? What?"

Jacques seemed stunned that I would just come out and ask, and he stared at me with his mouth agape.

"I'm Jacques!" Jacques shot back, folding his arms. "Zhat's vot I am. I am Jacques! Je ne sais pas pourquoi I can not compliment a cute guy and a cute girl! Everybody needs positive reinforcement, **Poupée**. It woudn't hurt you to give some every once in a while!"

I banged my head against the steering wheel, frustrated by my obvious inability to communicate, wondering if maybe he was the only one in high school who wasn't afraid to be himself. Maybe it was the rest of us who needed to figure ourselves out.

"You're right, Jacques. And believe me, I wouldn't change a hair on your head. I was just trying to explain why some people might have trouble relating."

"You mean why some people might have trouble accepting," Jacques whined, looking out his window.

"Yeah. That too," I sighed and started up my truck. Jacques forgave me in approximately five seconds into the ride and spoke the rest of the way home. Jacques couldn't stay angry unless, of course, someone collided with Belle. Then all reason left him and his mother joked that he became a raging chao. I'd only seen it happen a few times, but it was enough to make me never want a chao. Apparently, since I'd only pointed out his flaws, I was immediately forgiven and back in his good graces with barely a hiss.

When I arrived home the heat inside the apartment felt like the bowels of hell. It didn't smell very good either. Stale cigarettes and spilled beer mixed with 90 degree September heat wasn't a delightful mixture. The door to Rouge's room was shut. I pondered at her capability to sleep in the heat and sighed as I emptied the ashtrays and wiped up the beer spilled on the coffee table. Rouge obviously had a guest. A pair of men's jeans lay in a crumpled pile and Rouge's black bra and work shirt were tossed alongside them. Awesome. The faster I left this place, the better. I stripped my jeans off and pulled on a pair of cut-off sweats and a tank-top, pulling my hair up in a messy ponytail. Shoving my feet into flip-flops, I left the apartment ten minutes after I had arrived.

I rented a storage unit behind the complex for fifty bucks a month. It had lights and power, and it was my own little art studio. It had a bit of an amount of work tables with self-made materials and long sheets of paper.

Projects in different stages, from a huge pile to completed pieces of twisting, gleaming art decorated the perimeter of the space. I had laid out a blank paper, and I was tempted to see what it looked like when I created it into something more.

Most people who worked with paint admired to use common utensils because they were easy to carve and whittle, easy to shape into their own creation. Nobody painted with unconventional materials or a torch or fire. The art of that is too complex. The etches and embellishes the ensuing soot was out of the box. Burning images onto paper with a freewheeling hand is difficult, that was for sure. I had to use brushes from the hair of a Barbie doll or the end of a frayed rope to create the images. When the paper was blank, I would mostly spend a wide amount of time simply staring at it before I did anything. I had learned that from Rob O'.

Rob O' Rose had been a hushful man, hushful to to the purpose of not speaking for a period of days. It was astonishing that I had any language skills at all while I came to live with Rouge. Much obliged, PBS. At the time that I was three years old, my mother – at best we feigned it was her – relinquished me in the front seat of his truck and drove away. I didn't elicit my mother at all, beyond a hazy memory of red quills and a blue blanket. Rob O' was a traveller and had very little that he called his own. He had an old pickup truck and a camp trailer that he pulled along behind it, and that's where we lived. We never stayed in one place for very long, and we never had company, except for each other. He said he had family inhabiting in Station Square, but I never came across any of them. He teached me how to draw, and the skill had saved me, both financially, and emotionally, many times. I lost myself in it now, working until the early hours of morning when I was acknowledged of Rouge attending work, along with her unknown man, and the apartment would be empty.

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter is actually leading on to the the main course, but first need to inform you a bit since you're all getting an insight of Amy's life. These moments are actually very important points that will come up as we go. Though the next chapter will reveal a few juicy details of Sonic so wait and see!<strong>


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